Little Garden of Horrors
by miilky
Summary: A game of hide and seek sends the past to the present. Louie and Webby have to correct their mistake before Scrooge eats his hat. Dewey and Huey work to not die. (An AU dependent on canon.)
1. A Ball of Wibbly Wobbly, Timey Wimey

**A/N:** This is a definite AU.

* * *

Hide and seek. Their decision was made on a whim after their school lessons were concluded. Webby grasped the game's simple rules five seconds after Huey's explanation, and she squealed in poorly controlled enthusiasm, unable to wait for the boys to choose a seeker.

She ran down the corridors, wondering what hiding area would name her champion hider. Each room held potential. A dimensional hopping corner, a hidden wall, a secret compartment under the floorboards leading to unimaginable horrors, and she knew her best friends were capable of discovering each of these with little to great effort, depending on the seeker.

Webby stopped, clasping her hands in prayer position. "It needs to be good. It needs to be best," she mumbled aloud, able to hear the distant counts to thirty or maybe fifty.

She nearly slipped on a small tuff of hair on the floor, and she grunted, testing its fluffy texture. "Oh Bolivar," she groaned, dropping the abandoned strands, "Granny is going to have to give you a haircut."

There was no time to falter. In her impatience, she didn't know the designated number count. He may have stopped at twenty, forty-five, or even one hundred. Jumping on her toes, she flickered to each of the doors, weighing their potential until she made it to the last door on the left.

An arbitrary decision, the chosen door wasn't spectacular in anyway. Its faded paint was somewhat chipped, but Webby knew, for one reason or another, this was the door for her. Hearing the voice grow stronger, she hurried inside without a second thought, and gasped a little at the sight.

"Scrooge's private study." Closing the door, she stifled an amazed giggle-cackle. This room was one of Scrooge's many private studies. His mansion had countless studies currently abandoned or forgotten, and she had visited the majority of them, except for this one. She pranced to the bookcases and fingered the worn, dusty leather spines, childish glee squirting out of her mouth every second.

Webby swirled in the new room's knowledge. She was transfixed, and didn't hear the door quietly open. She didn't hear the intruder's quiet footsteps. Curled on the floor with a botany book on her lap, she pretended the quiet footsteps approaching her was the passing wind, although every window in the vicinity were closed shut. She murmured in rich hisses, closer to a pinched squeal than a serpent. The intruder reached towards her shoulder, ready to grip her and do untold things to her momentarily defenseless position.

"Hi, Louie." She propelled the book in his face, unintentionally pushing him backwards. Her finger pointed to page 185, "Though hemlock is one of the most poisonous plants in existence, someone utilized oleander's fatality's into an unmerciful curse!" Louie's silent horror remained so as she pressed the book to her chest, a dreamy expression swallowing her exuberant enthusiasm. He'd never understand her affection for most deadly, odd things.

"Okay." Louie said, "Shouldn't you be hiding?"

Webby tilted her head to the side, "Shouldn't you?"

"Hide and seek is for children."

"But we are -,"

"And it was more for Huey than us anyways." Walking to the far end of the room, a disinterested glance passed over the numerous books, maps, and paintings the room offered, "He's searching for Dewey."

"Dewey is the easiest find."

Louie shrugged, "Huey's going to check the kitchen first. He always does." Stopping in front of a portrait, his scrupulous stare studied its contents before shrugging back o Webby, "And he's probably hiding in the snack pantry, typical Dewey."

"It means we don't have a lot of time left." Webby returned the book to its shelving area, "And we're in the same room. We've narrowed the game down to a few seconds."

Louie scoffed, "Hubert's good, but he isn't that good," spreading his arms open, "there are like a million rooms down this hall alone. He's going to get lost."

"Or Dewey's going to get lost, and Huey has to find him." Smiling back, she headed towards the door when she noticed an old Grandfather's clock near the wall, "Oh, this is new."

"What?"

"This clock?" Its smooth glass sent tingles up her spine while the gold pendulum swung slowly within. Infatuated, Webby tipped on her toes, peering to see its contents, "It's an unusual Grandfather clock, that's all.

"He has a million of these," which was true. Every other room contained a minimum of one Grandfather clock, some short, some tall, all made of an unidentifiable wood Huey had yet to discover in the JWG. He tipped toed to the large hand, pushing it up a little, and then he did the same to its shorter twin.

"What are you doing," Webby gasped.

"Eh. Wanted to see what happens." He looked out the window, "They're near the pond," he chuckled softly, "okay, Dewey may have tried hiding in the pond, the dork." Walking away, he failed to notice Webby's breathless expression, or the fact she had stepped several inches backwards, eyes growing wider with every step.

"Louie!" She whispered - hissed, "Louie, what are you doing!?"

He didn't look back, dragging a yawn he didn't bother to cover up, "Going to the kitchen for a can of Pep. Haven't had my peak Pep limit today."

"You can't leave." She hissed, "Not now."

"Eh, it's not a big deal. I'll get there before they get back. We'll have another turn to hide." Opening the door, he turned to grin, but felt his grin slip off his beak, replaced with wordless shock.

"Now, you want to look!" Whitish blue light engulfed the room. The Grandfather Glock levitated off the floor, filling the room with a great, whoosh sound. Louie pressed his back against the door, shutting it tight.

"What's going on?"

"You tell me!"

Shielding his gaze with his arm, "This feels strangely familiar," one foot in front of the other, he was at Webby's side, "why does this feel familiar?"

"I don't know!" Webby pushed him out of the way the moment the Grandfather clock fell to the floor, landing in a perfect position with steam rolling off its wood.

Silence. The light, its sounds, everything was emptied, leaving the private study in absolute silence. Louie crashed onto the floor with Webby on top of him, shielding him from whatever anticipated explosion, but they were left empty handed.

"What was that?" Louie sat up, a little fringed but otherwise unharmed, " _What was that_ ," he gestured to the now quiet Grandfather clock - even its pendulum no longer swung, "Are Grandfather clocks supposed to do that?"

"Normally, no." Webby dusted her skirt off, studying the clock a bit harder than earlier, "You see," she tapped the glass, "look at the pendulum."

"No."

Webby frowned, "Are you going to do this now?"

"What'd ya' mean?"

"I mean," she drawled, "if you hadn't touched the hands, then none of this would've happened." Glaring back at the glass, there's something in the pendulum, I thought it was just crystal," she scrutinized the gem cut rising in pendulum's center, "but it seems to be something else."

"Oh, is it shiny?"

"Well, yes, it's a gem, naturally." Webby answered, "But it seems to be cracked."

A thin, miniscule crack seeped into the gem's blue-green-indigo mixed body. "It isn't diamond," Louie observed, "or gold."

"It's a mineral of some kind? Chrysoberyl, perhaps?"

"Oh, you mean Alexandrite."

"Right!" Webby snapped her fingers, "Alexandrite! This must be the legendary Clock of Chronos," she paused, staring at Louie, "wait, who said that?"

Louie's and Webby's shoulder stiffened. Their necks leaned backwards while their stares rolled to the ceiling where the third voice's person came into view.

Teal stared wide-eyed at them, "Oopsie."

Webby dodged. Louie didn't.

* * *

Louie wasn't dead. He wasn't harmed. He wasn't sure what happened, but knew, without a shadow of a doubt, he was far from safe.

"Um...Webby," an arm securely wrapped itself around his neck. He tried to move, to create some distance, but slender, short arm was firm, "Webby, I'm not safe. I'm so very, very, very not safe."

"You're not Donald."

He was thrown to the floor. Glaring ahead, he snapped back, "What's your damage?"

White blond curls fell over a shoulder, "Damage?" Kneeling down, inquisitive worry showed on her face, "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"You could've!"

A thick gasp pounded on her bouncy curls, "I'm sorry!" Grabbing the front of his hoodie, he was suddenly pulled on his feet, and she clasped his hands, bright eyes shining with unshed tears, " _A young lady does not put strangers in chokeholds,_ Duckworth tells me, and what do I do, put a stranger in a chokehold!"

"Especially in their house!" Louie jerked away, "Chokeholds in our house, what's your damage?"

She frowned, "I-I don't understand." Confusion graced over the bookcase, walls, paintings, and windows, "This is my house. I live here."

"This is the manor of Scrooge McDuck," Louie said. He scrutinized her, "Unless you're some kind of ghost - are you a ghost?"

"No."

"Well, unless you're a ghost -,"

"Didn't you say Duckworth," Webby interjected.

"I did."

They exchanged uneasy glances, "Oh." Adjusting their positions, reflected on the painting positioned near the Grandfather clock, "Oh."

Louie smacked his lips, "You're the creepy girl in the painting."

"Creepy-cute is less rude."

"Wait, so…," the clogs in Webby's brain worked faster than Louie's. A shrill squeal freed itself as enveloped her arms around the girl, hugging her in a tight, unforgiving embrace, "Hi! I'm Webby!"

"Hi!" The girl's stare widened in shock, resuming its normalcy as she settled in Webby's embrace. Returning the hug with identical intensity, she giggled, "I'm Opal!"

"What?" Shaking his head, pulling them apart, "You need to tell me," glaring at Webby, "what's going on here?"

Webby bounced on her feet, fists clenched in poorly contained excitement, "Don't tell me you don't know," gesturing madly to the girl, "it's her! It's her!"

"Who!?"

"Opal McDuck!" She sighed, "Scrooge's daughter!"

A pause. "Wait." Another pause, "Hold on." Louie let the information sink into the depths of his knowledge, but even as it sat at the very bottom, it didn't settle.

No. The information rocked unsteadily in his brain like a ship battling through a raging storm.

He repeated in dumb shock.

"Scrooge's daughter," he shook his head, "he has a kid!"

Louie's lips puckered in, absorbing the girl's - _no_ , Opal's very existence. His right eye twitched, and all the cogs in his usually fast working brain came to a screeching halt.

"Hi." The girl waved sheepishly, "I'm Opal."

* * *

 **A/N:** Webby and Louie interaction is really fun to write.


	2. Daughter of Smoke and Gold

Boredom was an integral part of impending adolescence, Opal knew. It drenched the mind like rainpour drenched her feathers. A meticulous teacher, Duckworth took charge in circumventing his young mistress' wayward attention - circling her interests back to their current studies. But even he - in his stuffy, English way, conceded there was no feasible way of permanently swaying her attention without removing her independence.

Opal suspected he believed this was a natural consequence of her upbringing. It made sense. His unwavering loyalty to his master led to a number of misadventures, certainly one leading to the alteration of her middle name. If those innermost thoughts and opinions, those quiet misgivings ever took root within, Duckworth ensured they never saw the light of day.

His concerns for her education were elevated when her unshakeable comprehension of mathematics, literature, history, sciences, and other arithmetic proved to be far above the national level. He didn't scoff or roll his eyes when their lessons diverted to spending an afternoon identifying the various forgotten and not yet discovered treasures of the world. His lessons were tedious, boring, and contained an engaging interest she wasn't strong enough to deny.

This was similar - watching Louie and Webby argue in one of her dad's unused studies.

"We need to find another Alexandrite!" Louie paced in circles, "If we we can find another Alexandrite, we can send her back."

"And what are we going to tell Uncle Scrooge?" Webby pinched her glabella, "Tell him 'Hey, can we borrow another gem we broke after bringing your daughter from the past. No rush'?"

"When you say it like that you make it sound way worse than it is." Louie sighed, "Do we even known Scrooge has another Alex-Alex-ugh, whatever it is!"

"He does."

Gaining their attention, a faint blush bubbled on her feathers, "If it's still where it was in my time," fiddling her fingers, she inhaled deeply, "then the additional Alexandrite gem cut should be in his bedroom."

"His bedroom?" Louie and Webby silently questioned each other, "Are you positive?"

She shrugged, "From what you've told me a lot of time has passed, so there's no way to be sure unless we look into his room. It'd have to be rotted, broken, useless, or the coupon expired for Daddy to throw it out."

"Huh."

"What's wrong," Webby asked Louie.

"Gotta get used to someone referring to him as Daddy." Looking at Webby, "How didn't we know?"

"I should've suspected when you didn't ask during my Clan McDuck review session," Webby admitted. She walked ahead, opening the door, "But if the gem is in there, we get out before Scrooge discovers it's missing."

Louie clapped his hand, "Great, awesome, good plan." His grin raced to meet Opal, "Okay, all we have to do -," stopping mid-sentence, his grin toppled, "she's not here."

"Wait, what?" Webby scanned the area, the suddenly two person area, and felt the lump in her throat grow,

"Where'd she go?"

* * *

Opal tapped the wall near the bookcase, a very slim strip of wall, three times and disappeared down a secret passageway. The wall resumed its natural position. Knowing they were likely to find the gem sooner than she liked, leaving was the most viable option. There was some guilt at leaving them in the midst of their intense discussion; apparently, breaking the gem would get them into a lot of trouble.

Secret passages were littered in almost every other room of the mansion, though she occasionally made mistakes. She didn't blame them for not knowing. Quietly stepping into the corridor, she tapped the wall in the same manner and with identical precision. It closed without making a sound.

"It's 2017." Her calculations ran quickly, "Twenty-seven years." The number echoed brightly down the corridor, and her beak pulled into a tight grin.

"We've checked the foyer, our room, bathroom," came a voice around the corner.

"They weren't in the pond, or Scrooge's other bin, not in Webby's bedroom." Another voice sighed, "Maybe hide and seek wasn't the best idea for a game in a mansion with a million rooms."

"In hindsight, hide and seek is another stealth game, and there's Webby." The first voice clucked impatiently, but suddenly brightened, "Don't worry, we'll find them."

Opal debated. The variety of skills in her arsenal opened a basket of options. There was much she could do, but determining the sound of their voices plus her recent encounter, she decided offense wasn't the correct route. But what to do? She jogged in place, humming softly, thinking rapidly, and she stuffed her hands into her skirt pockets.

She knew what to do.

Smoke was all they saw. They were going around the corner when smoke exploded all around them. Huey gasped, whatever scream ready to burst smothered under the haze. Dewey did scream - a brief, rattling scream dissolved in a coughing fit. Huey's cry had him clamoring towards him, or as close as he could through the smoke. His obscured light made him dizzy, and reached for the figure standing in front him, believing it to be Huey.

"Huey?" Approaching the smoky figure, "Huey, man, this is crazy -," a white blond ringlet fell over her shoulder.

* * *

"Dewey!" Using his shirt to cover his beak, Huey waved frantically through the smoke, racing towards Dewey's scream. His lungs gasp on the other side, fisting his knees, gasping and coughing. His vision cleared.

"Huey!" Vision cleared, Louie's forest green hoodie and Webby's pink lace bow rushed at him, "Oh man, Huey, are you okay?"

Coughing, he heaved, "Yeah, I'm fine," waving them off, "but Dewey -,"

"Where's Dewey?"

Smoke heaved from his lungs, and facing the dissipating smoke, all signs of Dewey vanished.

"He was right behind me!" His coughs weakened, "And suddenly poof," gesturing wildly, "what - what, we should call Uncle Donald, no, no," calming breaths tightened his breaths, "no, Mrs. Beakley, but who could've done it? Ma Beagle? Glomgold?"

"No." Webby admitted, "No, none of them." She rubbed the edges of her vest uneasily, nudging Louie sharply in the side for him to move forward, "We have to tell him."

"Seriously," he whispered, "you want me to tell him?"

"You do know I'm standing right here." Huey crossed his arms, "What did you do?"

Webby breathed through her nostrils. Her training didn't prepare her for constant lies; each and every attempt ended in failure. Stepping forward, she hung her head low and said, "It started with the Clock of Chronos."

* * *

Dewey was dead, or that's what he thought. He knew - knew he'd be the first to die. It seemed natural, if not ironic, but something he anticipated the second he discovered true, dangerous adventure.

And then he gasped.

His lungs lurched inward. An explosion of relief and pain burned as his body resumed its natural breathing practice. He rolled onto his side, coughing, spitting up a little, and gasped a second time, head raising to gaze at the stained glass window ahead.

A stream of multicolored light fell off the glass, pooling together at the feet of some person he did not know.

"I'm dead," Dewey's head rolled to the side. Dead. This was for certain. He was dead - what was he going to do? Was he going to drift in the mansion, a wandering spirit? Wait. That wasn't right. Black Arts Beagle summoned Duckworth.

"You're not dead," said a voice.

"God?"

"What? No." The voice reached for his sleeve, tugging him to stand, "Eshu and Anubis aren't here," she crossed her arms, a small pout pushed her beak forward, "and the Horned God and Black Dog haven't been seen in centuries, but I think they're vacationing in the Bermuda Triangle."

"Wait, what?" She straightened shoulders. Dusted off his shirt. Clapped her hands with unusual excitement. And yet, having never seen this girl before in his life - she felt familiar, "Are you a ghost?"

"Me?" She laughed, "Oh no, I'm no ghost." Her eyes widened, "But what jollification I'd have! Lacking a corporeal form means I can learn everyone's dirty secrets," she skipped down the hall, leaving Dewey in the corridor as if he was a passing dream.

He didn't stay, despite his senses telling him to turn in search for Huey. He ran after her - the girl with the soft drop feet, running until his lungs flanked him in aggravation. "Wait, come on," he whined, "wow, you're really fast for someone who likes to prance."

"Hm?" She merely side-glanced him, mind occupied with its original task. "You're still here," she smiled vacantly, like a clipped butterfly staggering about in confusion, "I suppose you can come to. You live here, don't you?"

"Um...yeah, I live here." Dewey's brow furrowed. He managed to keep pace with her prancing steps, and though he was somewhat out of breath, his determination strengthened, "You don't live here." She moved without distraction, not in a dream, not completely. She was aware of her surroundings, and Dewey realized as they made a right, then a left, then another right, one more right, and two lefts, that she knew where she was going too.

"I want to see Bolivar." She stopped at the corner, ensuring no other people were to be seen, "But I'm not ready go back yet," she counted her fingers, nodding in agreement of some phantom argument Dewey was ignorant of.

"Wait -," he reached for her sleeve, fingers pricking the edges before she hurried the rest of the way, giggling softly. Dewey groaned. On an instinctive level, he knew there was something dangerous about her; an element shrouded in nefarious mystery. He didn't stop when he should've.

"I wonder how big he's gotten." She wondered aloud, curls bouncing excitedly on her shoulders. Her gaze was bright and shining, filled with rich expectations, "Over twenty years! He was so small yesterday, or I suppose it's twenty seven years ago," another giggle freed itself, "either way, as long as I've taken good care of him, he should be fine."

Her quick speech implied a subtle kind of efficiency unlike the type he'd grown accustomed. Webby was outward, forward, excitement causing her to stumble over her words. This girl - this turquoise eyed girl, wore herself delicately under a silky coat of feathers.

She was strange. That girl. Dewey didn't know if this was a good thing.

"Who's Bolivar?" The question was impossible to ignore. He searched her expression for any change, "Is he a dude, or a pickle -, "

"A pickle?" His question made her brow rose in curious surprise, but her expression contemplated, running the possibility over her mind until she affirmed, "He isn't a pickle, silly. He's my pet."

"Your pet?"

"Yes," she said. Confusion and discovery peppered her expression, causing her turquoise stare to glisten, and she spun around. Her petite hands gripped his. He felt the free blood circulation stagger and weaken. Dewey flinched at penetrative stare standing across from his, "Would you like to come with me?"

"Wait, seriously?" She didn't appear to be lying. If she was, she was flawless in her execution, indicating zero nervousness or twitchiness, "Uncle Scrooge let you have a pet?"

"Exactly." She rolled her head exaggeratedly. Little snaps were heard when she returned his steady gaze, "And who'll have ta' walk it, feed it, clean up its little doggie bits," annoyance gnawed on her tone.

As Dewey giggled at her imitation, he came to a realization. Be it ghost, zombie, or some other abominable manifestation of the mansion, she was a girl - like Webby, a child - like him.

He was always game for an adventure in the mansion.

Mischief replaced confusion.

"Sure," he grinned, "let's meet Bolivar."

* * *

Half an hour passed, and any existing signs of them were lost. After the smoke cleared and Huey's lungs stopped wheezing, he listened to their explanations. Confusion. Denial. Absolute hilarity. Their story was impossible, unfeasible - time travel, laughter bubbled out of his beak. Their offended responses did little to sway him.

"It's true!" Frustration clenched Webby's fists, "The Clock of Chronos brought her forward in time. We need to find her before Uncle Scrooge finds out."

"Okay." Huey wiped tears from his eyes, "If what you're saying is true, which it can't possibly be, then Dewey is in safe hands." He ignored their collective groans, "She'd never hurt him."

Webby readied her response. Louie sidestepped her, easing his thoughtfulness into the argument effortlessly. "Child Opal is as bad as Webby," his neck twitched at the memory of her thin, unyielding arm wringing itself around its fragile body. Louie's fingers brushed his neck, "I saw my life flash before my eyes. No offense."

She shrugged, "None taken."

Their serious responses and expressions unnerved Huey. "Wait." He shook his head, adamant on remaining a disbeliever, "You're serious."

"That's what we've been telling you," Louie said.

Huey grimaced, "She's as bad as Webby? No offense."

"None taken."

"I don't know. About the same." Louie looked to Webby, "Where do you think she would've taken him?"

Attention on her, Webby's brain picked at the possibilities. Opal claimed the gem was in Scrooge's bedroom, but they lacked a plan to prevent discovery. Her lips smacked in thought, "Opal used to spend her time in the conservatory."

An epiphany brightened her feathers, "That's where she must've taken him."

"But?"

They glanced at Louie.

"What?" Louie gestured at Webby, "There's usually a but for these kind of things."

Webby curved her fingers around her beak in deep contemplation. "Granny says I'm never allowed to go into the conservatory."

Louie squinted, "We have a what?"

"A greenhouse. It's used to cultivate flowers and plants." Huey explained with an ounce of annoyance. Her turned multiple theories over his head, and none of them were acceptable, "Mrs. Beakley didn't explain to you why the conservatory was off limits? It isn't very productive to deprive you of a reason."

"I think she suspected had I known it'd encourage me." A reasonable prediction, Webby admitted. Whatever her granny's reasons, she knew they were sound, and there were other mysteries within the mansion she attached her interests on, "We can visit the conservatory and see if they're there. If not, we'll go straight to Scrooge's bedroom and find the Alexandrite ourselves."

"And not go to Beakley or Uncle Donald?" Huey suggested. When he received their blank yet obvious facial expressions, he knew he was outnumbered. His back hunched forward, "Fine. Let our third option remain 'report to Beakley and Uncle Donald.'"

"Great!" Webby clapped, "Off to the conservatory we go!"

* * *

The two children stepped out into the sunny afternoon. Dewey whistled, temporarily forgetting the warm weather after spending more than half the day indoors. Opal giggled and led him to a white building in the backyard. Approaching the white figure, he saw plant life bustle inside - greens, greens, and more greens, tall and large, short and stocky.

"I didn't know Uncle Scrooge was a gardener."

"Oh. He isn't." She declared confidently, "Duckworth planted the majority of them. It's his favorite past time. I was more than happy to help him. Our botany classes went swimmingly."

"Class?" Dewey questioned, "Wait - who, are you?"

There was no time for her to answer. She gripped his wrist and pulled him in. Whatever immediate question teetered on Dewey's tongue dissipated at the sight in front him.

All was gigantic. Trees and plants alike scaled the glass walls like antsy spiderwebs. He made a complete circle, absorbing Scrooge's greenhouse gargantuan plant collection. His head was overwhelmed, spinning in spoty circles, and by time she took hold of his wrist, steadying him, he was far beyond dizzy.

"Careful now." She led him along the far right, "Bolivar is shy, and we don't want to surprise him."

Several minutes passed. He tried to squeeze through her palm, but she was stronger, and far more resolved than he originally thought, "A strange place to keep a dog."

"Hm." She replied absentmindedly, attention rotating around her task. She twisted her head side to side, eyes squinting in flashing memory. About an hour and a half she was in her home in the present, wherever it was, and suddenly, she was thrusted into the future. Confusion was expected.

Her quick steps slacked, "I don't understand. He should be here." They reached a mid-section area, Dewey supposed, of the conservatory. Gazing down at an empty patch where a plan, her bright, animated features dwindled, revealing steadily descending heartbreak.

"I took very good care of him." Her gaze trembled back at Dewey. She started to pace, training her gaze on the empty patch where her beloved Bolivar originally stood, "I watered him. I fed him. He loved fresh goat."

"Wait." He raised his hands, "Bolivar isn't a dog, is he?"

"No." She twisted her skirt, picking at the intricate thread lining, "No, he isn't. I never said he was a dog. Why'd you think he was a dog?"

"Dog. Cat. Pig. I dunno." Dewey slapped his forehead, "I thought he was an animal."

"He's my darling darlingtonia californica." She stomped her foot angrily and dug into one of her skirt pockets. Her bereft tears were supplanted by annoyance, then anger, "I can't believe him! He promised!"

"Who?"

She glared, "Daddy!" Crossing her arms, she paced around him, "He said if I took care of it, which I'm sure I did in the future, then I'd be allowed to keep him. He said no one could grow a cobra lily in the city, and I told him I was going to!"

"A cobra lily?" He mourned Huey's absence. An explanation would be useful, but his limited knowledge didn't stunt his vocabulary, "So it's like a plant?"

"Oh! Oh...this boils me! Ugh!" She threw her hands in the air, "He'd do it. He'd do it for her. He always did." What was it that passed over her eyes? A thick, rich glaze darkened her turquoise, narrowing them into slits, and she crossed her arms behind her back, lurching forward as anger swept through her chest.

"Her who?"

Her curls swirled at him. Her fists pinched into her sides, and if it were possible, her nostrils would've flared as she bit out a single name, "Della."

It was a different sensation than being struck in the stomach or having water thrown into your face. Air was teased from his lungs, stuffing him with suffocating tightness.

"I'd seen a photo of you." Uncle Donald said she smell of flowers and dog fur. He stared at the girl - really stared at her for what felt like the first time. Her white-blond curls, ruminating turquoise eyes, and her shy smile. Dewey inhaled sharply, sucking through his teeth.

"Opal," he murmured. He met her suddenly too bright, too shining eyes, and for a quiet moment, her anger receded, head tilting to the side. His stomach bubbled uncomfortably, twisting in knots the same way she fisted her skirt, "Opal, how did you get here?"

"Oh." She blinked. As if she realized something terrible had taken root within him, she covered his hands with her own, spreading a smile in comfort, "We were going to look for the Alexandrite in Daddy's bedroom, but I wanted to see what Bolivar looked like. I'm sorry for hurting you."

"You didn't hurt me," pink rose to his cheeks in offense.

"You look upset."

He wanted answers. He wanted to ask questions, so many popped from underneath the surface, but Dewey knew this was not the time. She was not of his time. Not this Opal.

"Scrooge may have moved it." Dewey turned his hand on its back, gripping her in return, "Bolivar, I mean. If he was big enough to fit that," pointing to patch of soil where the plant was previously planted, "Scrooge might've moved him elsewhere."

She wiped her eyes, "You think?"

"Where else could he put a dog sized plant?" Dewey laughed.

* * *

Vines of various sizes created freeways across the floors. Their bulbous shapes were reminiscent of a General Sherman root splitting free. Soil and fertilizer sprinkled at their feet. Huey, Louie, and Webby breathed a sigh of relief, as abnormal as the conservatory was there was some semblance of normalcy.

Concern rolled onto Louie's face, "This looks more like a jungle than a greenhouse." Crossing over a vine, grimacing at its unnatural girth, "Seriously, there's no way we're going to find them in this place!"

"Calm down." Webby cautioned. Admitting their mission's difficulty frustrated her to no end. With sunlight beaming through on them, lighting should've been efficient. Green shadows accumulated together, blocking most of the light.

"We're going to stick together." Huey walked to one of the plants. Without referring to his JWG, he examined the flower's miniature bell shaped petal, silky soft at the touch, "These are lily of the valleys." He glanced at their deep violet neighbors, "And these are wolf's bane, and these are oleanders." With every identified flower, his voice reached a new pitch.

"Okay!" Louie snapped, glaring at his eldest brother, "The flowers are pretty, can we go now?"

"Yes, they're very pretty." Huey spread his arms for dramatic effect, "But they're all extremely poisonous. The oleanders, wolf's bane, hemlock," he gasped feebly, "seriously, hemlock? Why does she have hemlock?"

Webby shrugged, "Most of this stuff was planted when Duckworth was still alive." Orange lilies, borage, and blue roses bloomed in her memory, "She lived in the manor when she planted these."

"But why?"

"I can't say." Webby answered, "This must be the reason Granny wanted me to stay away from the conservatory."

"Is anyone planning to eat anything in here?" Huey and Webby shook their heads. Louie exhaled a relieved breath and moved forward.

Their searched descended towards the conservatory's heart. The plants grew thicker, larger, and wilder. Louie complained about vines snaking around his ankle. He ripped them free every time. Huey dabbed at his nostrils. His allergies were starting to tickle. Webby was unfazed, observant, and quiet. Callin their names required. Their voices echoed meekly, getting caught and strangled in trees and tall plants.

"This is useless!" Louie threw his hands in the air, "They can be anywhere, and if we're speaking realistically, Dewey has probably accidentally swallowed some toxious plant! Lets call Beakley or Duckworth!"

Huey snorted, crossing his arms. Annoyance drew tightly around his beak's corners, "Dewey knows not to put any strange items in his mouth after the donut incident, and this is a conservatory, what can possibly go wrong?"

Louie glared tiredly at his brother's smug expression. It did them no favors. He turned on his heel in the opposite direction, more than ready to leave them behind when his peripheral vision caught sight of a shadow scurrying across the window.

"Ack!" He screamed. He flailed back into one of the shelves, knocking a batch of potted pale violet orchids to the floor. Its powerful crash and subsequent splitting were lost to Louie. He pointed shakily to the window where the massive shadow receded into sunlight.

"Louie!" Huey and Webby ran to him. His speech stumbled over their exclamations, jumbling whatever explanation he had planned for them. Webby blinked at where the potted flowers split in perfect halves. While Huey comforted Louie, she crouched to the potted flowers' remains. Gingerly, she pushed the split halves aside.

"Huey, Louie." She whispered tightly. Louie was lost in Huey's arms to think of anything else. Huey nodded mutely that sufficed as confirmation that she had someone's attention. "Look here," she pointed to the center of the former plant, "do you see it?"

Huey studied the location she pointed to. "What's that little green bean," he asked while shushing Louie's weak cries, "should it be in there?"

"I don't think so." Webby paused. She searched the vicinity for something to use, and exclaimed softly when she noticed a miniature garden rake under the shelf. With it in hand, she pushed the surrounding soil away until the green bean revealed itself to be more.

"Whoa." She stopped her pushing, leaving a ghost of a gasp on her lips, "Like, wow, wow."

"What is it?" Huey asked, releasing Louie and peering over her shoulder, "It's a vine, Webby."

"No." She replied with unexplained firmness, "It isn't just a vine." She set the rake above the vine and tapped the vine's skin gently.

"It isn't do anything," Louie wiped his eyes.

Huey raised his hand, "No, it is! Look!" Below them vibrations ran through the vine's leathery hide. It seemed to want to grow but was stunted. Sharply aware of her proximity to the vine, Webby scooted back, smacking into Huey's leg and Louie's arm as the latter helped her up.

"Should we try to catch it?"

"What?" Louie cried, "Absolutely not!"

"I don't think we have a choice." Webby said, "It isn't going to give us one." The boys witnessed her statement's accuracy. The vine suddenly flattened. Close to the floor it rested on, slinking to the edge of the wall, and they watched with caught breaths as the vine raised three inches off the floor and waved.

Immediately the leafy, flattened vine zipped out of sight along the edge of the wall.

Three children stared in unsettled silence.

"I'm still sane aren't I?"

"Inhaling should be fine," Huey insisted.

"Be quiet," Webby hissed in an uncharacteristically harsh tone. Still on the floor, skirt dirtied and chest panting, she lined the wall where the vine fled along. Her nostrils flared. An uncomfortable rumble crossed her stomach as she stood, ignoring the bits of dirt on her skirt, she turned to her friends.

"We need to find Dewey."

Huey and Louie nodded stiffly. Their unanimous decision was a small consolation.

* * *

 **A/N:** Am having a fun/rough time writing this story. It's definitely a double edged show.


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